


Appraisal

by jedusaur



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M, Tattoos, Voyeurism, gay above the waist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-30
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete's philosophy on tattoos goes like this: if he wants to get a tattoo, if he's thinking about getting a tattoo, if the vaguest hint of an urge to get a tattoo crosses his mind, he gets the tattoo; because even if he doesn't want to have it ten years or ten minutes later, he never wants to forget being the person who did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appraisal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verbyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/gifts).



> Written for the [Get Pedicone Some meme](http://piratesunk.livejournal.com/17635.html).

Pete's philosophy on tattoos goes like this: if he wants to get a tattoo, if he's thinking about getting a tattoo, if the vaguest hint of an urge to get a tattoo crosses his mind, he gets the tattoo; because even if he doesn't want to have it ten years or ten minutes later, he never wants to forget being the person who did.

People tell him it's a bad idea to mark himself up in ways he can't hide, but everyone is marked up in ways they can't hide, even when they curl up tight and look the other way and try to keep their secrets tucked away behind folded frightened arms. No matter how intent they are on their cell phone screens or how jauntily they tilt their hips, someone out there can always tell.

Pete knows he's no good at subtlety. His heart is pinned to his sleeve, and his cock is dangling out of his pants even when it isn't, and his brain is right there obvious behind his gaping transparent eyes. It would be pointless and pathetic to try to pretend there's anything no one knows about him. Anyone can tell how he's feeling, who he's in love with, what he wants, what makes him wonder; anyone at all can tell if they just look at him, and everyone is always looking at him, so why not draw his stories all over himself and let them look?

Mike Pedicone doesn't get that kind of tattoo. His tattoos are thought-out and intentionally curious, sure secure messages reading _why, yes, there is a story here, and if you ask politely enough, I might even tell it to you instead of fucking your shit up._ Pete is jealous of a lot of people--Patrick for his musical genius, Gerard for his ability to keep himself even as he gives himself away, that thirteen-year-old fan for the responsible adult who's going to drive her home after the show and make sure she gets to sleep at a reasonable hour--but none of it even comes close to how jealous he is of Pedicone for this.

Pete has the impulses of a teenager and the impulse control of a three-year-old, and he has the self-centered obliviousness of a spoiled celebrity, so he's been lying on the hotel bed caressing Pedicone's sleeve ink for at least ten minutes before he realizes Pedicone is hard. When he finally does notice, he jerks away guiltily.

"I don't mind," says Pedicone, low and calming.

Pete glances at Mikey, who's smirking on the other bed, and wonders how long they've been exchanging amused glances while he's been entranced by the lines on Pedicone's arm. People exchange amused glances a lot around Pete. He's used to it, used to silent condescension over his propensity for distraction by things that are pretty. Pete doesn't mind being called ADD, because he knows there are worse ways to spend his attention than beauty, but he can't stand being left out of a joke.

He doesn't move back toward Pedicone. "I won't," he says, and he can see Mikey about to finish his sentence for him, so he starts a few new ones. "I can't, I'm not, I mean."

"You don't have to fuck me to touch me," says Pedicone, and his voice holds a promise without demanding one in return.

Pete reaches out a stuttering hand and strokes Pedicone's arm again, following the dark lines to blank flesh. Pedicone's empty skin looks open, like a choice yet to be made, where Pete's just looks inevitable.

Fuck inevitable.

Pete kisses him.

"I wouldn't," says Mikey. "Been there, done that, jerked off in the bathroom after the panic attack."

"Quit your cockblocking, Way," says Pedicone, smooth like a wet marble, and his tongue is still in Pete's mouth when Pete never noticed him putting it there at all, and Mikey shuts up.

Pete's never done this with any guys except the ones in this room. Pedicone feels more like a man than Mikey did, but somehow less of a reason to freak out, like Mikey was trying to trick him with his slender build and sensuous mouth. Nothing about Pedicone could be described as sensuous. It's comforting, strange but helpful, not to have to remind himself every few seconds that there's a dick attached to this person. It's absolutely impossible to make out with Pedicone and forget that he's a dude.

"I'm gonna blow you now," says Pedicone, "unless you mind."

Pete shakes his head: never any objections to blowjobs. "I won't be able to do you," he warns. Touching he might be able to handle, but he knows from graceless unflattering experience what happens when he tries to suck cock.

Mikey, who knows too, says, "You guys just holler if you want me out of here." Neither of them acknowledge him. "Cool," he says, and Pete can see in his peripheral vision that Mikey is rearranging himself for a better view.

Pedicone gives head like he's trying to win a prize; tossing cockrings, bobbing for uvulae. He gulps Pete's cock down, literally gulps, swallowing like the drops of precome approaching his throat are an order of magnitude larger in volume. "I'm gonna come in like ten seconds if you keep that shit up," says Pete, and Pedicone keeps that shit up, and Pete comes, because there are promises he breaks and promises he doesn't.

Pedicone pulls off after the first pulse and aims Pete's cock at his own face, and the rest of Pete's come hits him in the cheek, dripping back down into Pete's pubic hair. That's supposed to be the end of it, because Pete said he wouldn't return the favor, he _said_ , and Pedicone doesn't act like he expects anything.

But he doesn't move away, doesn't head toward the bathroom with a knowing eyeroll in Mikey's direction like Pete knows Mikey is expecting him to, or roll away and grasp his cock himself. Instead, he touches a finger to his face, getting Pete's come all over it. Then he starts quietly tracing Pete's tattoos, like Pete traced his but with semen showing where his touch has been.

The scary part about this is that Pedicone knows himself _and_ he knows Pete, while Pete only knows himself, and that just barely. Pedicone knows everything about all their tattoos, and Pete just knows a little bit about his; just what they look like, nothing more, nothing like the searing understanding he can see in Pedicone's eyes as he coats the colors with come. That's why Pete can't suck cock. Not because of the actual presence of cock, but because he's afraid of what everyone except him will see in his next tattoo.

"Except you don't do it for them," says Pedicone, like he's finishing a thought that started in his head, only it actually started in Pete's. He smears his palm across Pete's chest, wiping away most of the come.

"He does do it for them," says Mikey. "He does everything for them."

Pedicone turns to look at him for the first time. "That," he tells Mikey, "is why he couldn't suck your dick." He looks back at Pete. "This," he says, gesturing to his own tattoos, "is why you're going to be able to suck mine."

And to Pete's unbridled and continuing surprise, he's right.


End file.
